


"no," said the starling—

by DoctorSyntax



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, Infidelity, No Beta We Die Like Beric Dondarrion, Oaths & Vows, Secret Relationship, Uneven Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:55:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29791551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorSyntax/pseuds/DoctorSyntax
Summary: She'll never send him away. He doesn't have the power to leave on his own.The vow he swore her is all he has left.
Relationships: Podrick Payne/Sansa Stark, Sansa Stark/Other(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	"no," said the starling—

**Author's Note:**

> The title & quoted passage is from “A Sentimental Journey through France and Italy” by Laurence Sterne. Mansfield Park (1999) used it to beautifully illustrate how we are bound by both our circumstances and our choices. I’ve been thinking about it for literally the last 15 years, so this fic owes it a debt of gratitude.

He doesn’t think it through.

(Later, he will wonder if the timing was intentional, if she _knew_ —)

Now, though, riding the high of living through the battle, of finally achieving his dream, of Brienne’s faith in him, when Lady Sansa congratulates _Ser Podrick Payne_ and smiles at him and says he has a home in Winterfell as long as he wants it—now, he does not hesitate to kneel once more, saying words he has had dreamed of his entire life.

For the first time, he is free to pledge himself, and he doesn’t hold onto that freedom, doesn’t savor it. He gives it away as soon as it comes, believing himself to understand the magnitude of his actions and confident in his future path.

(Later, for a long time, he will only blame himself for what’s to come.)

*

On their way to the Wall, Jon brings his horse up beside Podrick’s. “Be careful,” he says with a nod toward Sansa, several lengths ahead of them. “Love is the death of duty.”

Podrick politely does not disagree. Exile or not, Queenslayer or not, Jon is the blood of kings.

(But Jon is wrong, of course—love is what makes duty worth doing, turning it from obligation into something nobler. To pledge yourself for love is the highest form of duty.)

When she comes to him in the night, a few days after her coronation, he thinks of Jon’s words again. But in the end, she is his Queen.

(She is his love.)

He will do whatever she asks of him, no matter the personal cost, for that is what he pledged to her.

*

The new King Consort seeks no power, wants only to serve the North, is brave and gentle and all the things Sansa’s husband ought to be. Podrick should like him—does like him—and patiently dreads the day he will be asked to leave Sansa’s service.

(“He’s not you,” she insists, between kisses. “I’ll never love him.”)

The King Consort takes him aside, says kindly, “I can see that you care deeply for her—”

Man-to-man, he asks for Podrick’s word of honor that he has not touched Sansa, will never touch Sansa, and Podrick thinks of the vow Sansa swore to him,

(… _and pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you into dishonor_ …)

but he knows what she would ask of him now. Though he makes the promise freely, it tastes like ash in his mouth.

*

The entire castle seems to hold its breath, everyone realizing too late that there is no joy in a Stark heir if producing one kills their beloved Queen.

(There is a part of him, a part he despises, that would feel relief to be free of this vow, even as his grief would destroy him—)

She is feverish and pale and he wants to leave—wants to stay—wants to forget he ever knew her—wants to give his life for hers. Instead he takes up the book beside her bed, page marked; he opens it and begins to read aloud.

> _I stood looking at the bird: and to every person who came through the passage it ran fluttering to the side towards which they approach’d it, with the same lamentation of its captivity. “I can’t get out,” said the starling.—God help thee! said I, but I’ll let thee out, cost what it will; so I turned about the cage to get to the door: it was twisted and double twisted so fast with wire, there was no getting it open without pulling the cage to pieces.—I took both hands to it._
> 
> __
> 
> __
> 
> _The bird flew to the place where I was attempting his deliverance, and thrusting his head through the trellis pressed his breast against it as if impatient.—I fear, poor creature! said I, I cannot set thee at liberty.—“No,” said the starling,— “I can’t get out—I can’t get out,” said the starling._

He reads until the candle burns down, until his voice is all but gone, and her condition does not change.

At dawn the King Consort returns to the birthing-room, hoping Sansa will be lucid enough to meet their child. “The Stark blood is strong, is it not?” he remarks, as Podrick gets his first glimpse of the newborn prince—a healthy-looking babe, already with a head of dark hair that neither King Consort nor Queen possesses.

(It is a bittersweet revelation—even if Sansa does not survive the night, Podrick would be free in word only. For how could he leave Winterfell now?)

*

All too soon, he realizes the question is really, _how can he stay?_ The heir to the North is their dishonor made flesh, a living reminder of how far Podrick has strayed in the service of his Queen.

(Over and over he finds himself wishing to be able to speak with Jamie Lannister again, the only man he’s ever known to navigate something like this.)

Podrick has been at the mercy of others’ whims for his entire life, but he has never begged for anything. Not until he goes to his knees before her once more and begs to be released from his vow. For if he could but leave, Sansa may come to love her husband, embrace her marriage, and their son may never be found out as a bastard.

“I can’t get out,” she pleads in answer, and he sees the tears she will not shed and hears the words she will not say—

( _So neither can you._ )

He’d free her if he could. She can free him, but won’t. The boy he once was can’t bear the idea of staying, but man he has become knows that this cage is his home.

*

The arguing begins after the princess is born, for it is not just Podrick’s hair she inherits. The King Consort is an easygoing man, but not a foolish one, and what he willfully blinded himself to once in favor of plausible deniability cannot be overlooked this time.

As the weeks pass, it becomes more and more clear there is hardly any of Sansa in her at all—she has Podrick’s eyes, his mouth, his round face.

(Guarding the door, Podrick listens to Sansa steadfastly deny the accusations. She can betray him a thousand times, a thousand ways, but he is bound to her by his word.)

The King Consort does not have the power to release Podrick from his pledge. Podrick doesn’t have the power to leave. And Sansa will never send him away. 

(The vow he swore her is all he has left. A love he cannot acknowledge, children he cannot claim, dreams of a noble and brave life long dead.)

The accident happens not long after that.

*

When she stops wearing mourning—

(when he no longer is wracked with guilt simply undressing her)

—Sansa makes a public announcement that she will never take a fourth husband. Podrick stands at his place behind her and both of them pretend not to notice the way every eye in the hall shifts to him.

(Because—it _was_ an accident, wasn’t it? A tragic accident. Sansa wouldn’t have— _couldn’t have_ —)

Still, the realm has its heir and its spare; even if, at times, it is whispered that the royal children of the North may be half-southern, nobody can question that their mother is a Stark of Winterfell and blood of the old kings. And that is all that really matters.

*

Fifteen years into his reign, Bran finally visits Winterfell, accompanied by his loyal Kingsguards. It takes Brienne one glimpse of the prince and princess, and one searching glance at Podrick, to learn the one thing he never wanted her to know.

He waits for her to bring it up, to say he didn’t think it through—

(even though he knows, deep down, he’d have chosen the same path every time)

—but she never mentions it. In her eyes he can read her fervent wish that Sansa had released him to Bran, and kept Brienne for herself. He can see her wonder if she knighted him too soon, if she let him down. How disappointed she is in him.

(If only she knew how much he has disappointed himself.)

*

Each morning he wakes alone, dresses alone. This is the life he chose—not just once, with one vow, but over and over and over again.

For Sansa.

(Love is the death of duty. He understands now.)


End file.
